


Epilogue - In Three Acts

by Jadis



Series: Transformation [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach - AU after S3 Premieres
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadis/pseuds/Jadis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the dust settles, another storm blows in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [L_Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Morgan/gifts).



> The last part of L_Morgan's birthday pressie. Thank everyone for reading and commenting or leaving kudos. No copyright infringement meant. I own nothing, sadly. All errors are mine.

Refreshed and cleaned up the following morning, Sherlock tripped lightly down the stairs.  John was still in deep sleep and even a quick buss to his forehead did not cause him to stir.

First order of business: tea and toast.  Down the hall and to his left, he entered the kitchen and stopped short.  Full breakfast was being served, the entire bay window seating covered up with Mycroft’s hired hands.  He’d expected to have to fend for himself until John woke up, but instead there seemed to be a full complement of staff both busy at the cook stove and also serving up hot steaming omelets.  The toaster pinged and two nicely brown pieces of bread sprang up.

One of the cooks looked up and smiled.  “Mr. Holmes,” she said.  “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” he said automatically.  “Mrs. Lake, isn’t it?”

Her entire face lit up with pleasure, “It is, sir.”  She moved closer, as if taking him into confidence.  “Now Mr. Holmes senior said you’d be stubborn about eating.  But you should really have something.”

The omelet that was being served up smelled of roasted peppers and sun dried tomatoes.   As Mrs. Lake had been Mycroft’s personal cook in London for years Sherlock knew she wouldn’t hesitate to report his own eating habits, or lack thereof, to Mycroft.  He didn’t want both Mycroft and John badgering him after every mouthful.   “Perhaps a small omelet,” he relented.  About half that size?”

She smiled as if she’d just won the lottery.  “Of course, sir.  And a bit of toast and jam as well?”

“Marmalade,” Sherlock corrected, flapping his hand.  “I’m not picky about the flavor.  If there is any in.”

“Of course, sir.”  She pulled one of the many mugs stacked on the countertop and poured tea.  “It’s just been brewed,” she said.  “Milk and sugar?”

Sherlock nodded and then took the proffered mug.  Opening his mouth to speak, Mrs. Lake cut him off.

“Mr. Holmes senior is in the room where all the trouble was last night,” she said.  “And we’ve already taken trays up to the infirm, except you and Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  It was unnerving to have someone answer his questions before he spoke them aloud.  He’d try to remember that in future.

“Now about your omelet, I’ll fix it myself.  And send someone to fetch you when it’s done.”

“Thank you,” he said. Sherlock felt a bit like he was being given the bum’s rush and turned to leave, exiting via the formal dining room where Nanny and Mrs. Carlisle had fallen the night before.

Other than dirty footprints and chairs is disarray there wasn’t much else to see.  Nonetheless he was careful to not tread on or touch anything that might be of relevant to the investigation.

Stepping out and into lounge Sherlock stopped.  Mycroft and Lestrade were in deep conversation.  Yet, that wasn’t what caught Sherlock’s eye. They were a centimeter too close, turned in toward one another, Lestrade looking up at Mycroft through lowered lashes.

_Surely not._

Then Lestrade saw Sherlock and his quick back up step and the slightest tinge of red on his cheekbones was the confirmation Sherlock needed.

“I said I was going to punch you,” Lestrade said, swagger in his step as he came over, and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“I don’t think Mycroft would like that very much,” Sherlock said, a studied innocence in his tone.  He turned sly eyes toward his brother.  “Would you, Brother Dear?”

Mycroft gave him a warning look which Sherlock returned.  His point had been made.

Turning back to Lestrade he saw something else in his face: shame.  About Mycroft?  No.  Contrition?  Yes.  Ah.

“I, uh,” Lestrade began.  “I want to say how sorry I am to have ever….”

“Apology accepted,” Sherlock said quickly.  “Spilt milk, and all of that, Detective Inspector.”

“Then call me Greg,” Lestrade said.

“Before I call you brother-in-law, you mean?” Sherlock asked, eyebrow creeping up with the question.

“Sher-lock,” Mycroft said.  “Since you’re using inane words of wisdom – spilt milk?  Really?  Then focus on this one: Pot.  Kettle.”

Sherlock smirked at his brother and then focused on Lestrade.  “I’m glad you were here last night.”

Lestrade - stood frozen as if Sherlock had just commanded him to murder a den of baby rabbits.

 _Dear God, sex must be making his brain rot_.  And while on the topic of banal phrases: in for a penny: “I appreciate you being here to take care of John,” Sherlock said.  “Thank you.”

“Well,” Lestrade said, shifting from foot to foot, a cheesy grin on his face.  “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock broke their gaze and looked around the almost destroyed room.  Glass particles, gun powder from the flash-bangs, blood marred the white carpeted floors and furnishings. 

Bullets had ripped through and in some case embedded into, the room’s walls and the furniture.  The stately arched cathedral glass windows were all but shells, the lead mostly held together as the glass had shattered by the flying bullets last night.

Lab technicians added to the destruction as they dusted for fingerprints and dug bullets out of the thousand year old walls.

“I wouldn’t want to be the one who has to explain this,” Sherlock said, one corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

Lestrade looked between him and Mycroft.  “To whom?”

“Why to Mummy, of course,” Sherlock said, his tone mocking.  “She’ll –“

He was cut off when the sound of an incoming helicopter made itself heard.

“Well,” Sherlock said, his voice rose to be heard over the noise.  “No need for conjecture when we’ll be witnessing it first hand in approximately eight minutes.”

“Five,” Mycroft said.  “She is considerably distraught.”

“Who is?” Lestrade asked.  “Your Mum?” he pivoted on foot between them.  “How could you possibly know that?”

“The helicopter,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade looked none the less confused.

“The angle of her descent,” Sherlock added.  “A bit steeper than normal.”  He swept his eyes over his brother.  No one put the fear of God into Mycroft.  Except their mother.  “Any last words, Mycroft?”

“Four minutes,” a woman’s voice said before she entered the room. 

And there she was.  Sherlock’s mouth curled up in delight but she stilled him with a single raised finger.  “Five minutes, darling,” she said, eyes locked on Mycroft.

Everyone in the room stilled.  The air was heavy and Mummy’s eyes were flashing fire.

“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, her voice promised murder.  “Care to explain yourself young man?”

Mycroft shifted his weight, drawing himself up as tall and straight as possible.  Sherlock nearly laughed.  As if that would save him from Mummy’s wrath.  It never had before.

Her PA, Robert, arrived just then, and stopped just outside the threshold.  “Ma’am,” he asked.  “Might I get you something?”

“Tea,” she said, never turning her head.  “I’ll assume you’ve someone in the kitchen who can brew a pot of tea given you’ve allowed my entire staff to be poisoned?” Her tone was arch.

“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft said, with just a hint of a head nod.

Sherlock had to work to keep his face impassive as he saw Lestrade’s anxiety ratchet up with every passing moment.  So, he hadn’t met Mummy before.  Not the best way to impress his lover’s mother.

“And I assume _they’ve_ been fully vetted?” Mummy asked.  “Hopefully better than your last hire?  Katie, I believe?” 

“Of course,” Mycroft said.  His shoulders were so drawn back Sherlock imagined they had to be paining him.

Within two ticks, Robert was at his mother’s elbow, handing a delicate bone china tea cup over to Mummy.  No common earthenware mug for her, Sherlock thought, having to force back a smirk.  Best not to get too entirely comfortable.  Two minutes down, three to go and then she would be shifting her attention, and no doubt a little of her vitriol, to him.

She took a slight sip and then handed the cup back to Robert and began making her way around the room, carefully avoiding the worst of the glass.  “That paneling you’ve been gouging bullets out of is priceless, you understand.  There will be no replacing it.”

“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft said.

But Sherlock caught his brother’s eye.  She was pleased to see it go.  _Ah.  The decorating bug again._

“The windows – must be replaced exactly as they were, however,” she said.  Then she whirled dramatically and strode back, stopping in front of Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, standing up taller, sucking in his stomach.  “My apologies for the mess, ma’am.  We’ll be out of here as quickly as is feasible and still maintaining the integrity of the investigation.”

“Yes, well,” she said, continuing to survey the damage.  “How long will it be before we can clean up the mess?  It is England you know and there will be rain sooner rather than later.”

“By the end of the day, ma’am.”

“Mycroft – ”

“They’re waiting on standby mother.”

Lestrade looked between them.

“The carpenter,” Sherlock said.  “To get the windows boarded until the glass can be cut to order.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said.  “Of course.”

Mummy strode over to Sherlock, stopping in front of him.  She was magnificent, Sherlock thought, dressed in her favored dove grey, elegant pinstripe trousers and a cashmere sweater, her hair pulled back in a sophisticated ponytail.

She took his hands in hers, spreading them wide.

“Let me look at my baby boy,” she said.  “Have you eaten?”

“Uhm – ”

“That would be a ‘no’ then,” she said.  “Robert, please have someone competent in the kitchen to cook my son a full English.”

“Mummy – ” he began.

“Do not argue with me, Sherlock.”

“But,” he began again, just as Mrs. Lake appeared in the doorway.

“Begging your pardons,” she said.  “But Mr. Holmes the younger’s breakfast is ready to be served.”

Mummy’s artfully tweezed eyebrow rose and her mouth so like his own smiled broadly.  “Well, it would seem that even with Nanny down for a time, I’ll have someone on my side to help feed you up.”

Sherlock sighed.

“And after breakfast I’ll want to see the stab wound,” she said.

“Mummy,” he whined.

“None of that, Sunshine,” she said, and then pulled him into her arms for a quick hug.  She smelled of her signature perfume, created for her in Paris, updated yearly with just a tiny adjustment, usually to the jasmine or vanilla, to ‘keep it fresh’.  “Off you go, then,” she said, pulling back and smiling at him.  “I’ll see you later, darling.”

Sherlock headed for the door, but paused when he heard his mother turn on her bespoke Italian heels and say to Mycroft.  “In my study, Mycroft.   Ten minutes.

 


	2. Breakfast of Champions

Sherlock looked up from his breakfast as John walked in.  He chuckled at the surprised look etched on John’s face: eyebrows raised, eyes slightly widened, mouth turned down in a confused frown.

Mycroft’s mercenaries had cleared out, leaving the bay window seating free when Sherlock had dutifully followed Mrs. Lake in to take his breakfast.  Still an air of frenzy remained as members of NSY were in and out topping up their tea or coffee.  The clink of dishes being stacked as they were being prepped to go into the industrial dishwasher barely allowed snatches of worried conversation to be heard.  What on earth would they serve for 30 people in the form of cold lunches?  And then one informal dinner for 20 and a formal dinner for six. 

Knowing he should wave over John, Sherlock stayed his hand, taking a moment to really see John.  He was glorious.   Worth every bit of agony Sherlock had endured during their time apart.

John saw him, his face breaking into a smile as he gave Sherlock a quick nod.

_Ah, sentiment._

For once, Sherlock was glad.  His heart seemed to expand and instead of stuffing it down, he let his own face reflect his joy.

“Hi,” John said, sidling up to the table.

Sherlock was amused as he watched John’s brow furrow, a bit of worry settle around his eyes, yet still beaming.  He didn’t know how to greet Sherlock now that their relationship status had changed.

“Cup of tea?” Mrs. Lake asked from behind John.  “You’ll be Dr. Watson then?”

John turned and smiled.  “Yes.  Yes I am.  And you are?”

 "I’m Mrs. Lake,” she said.  “Down from London to take care of the estate until Mrs. Meadows and Mrs. Carlisle are back on their feet.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Lake,” John said.   His eyes wandered over the marble center island where a catering coffee pot and a small station had been set up.  “Is that coffee?  I think I’ll start there.”  He made a move.  “I can get it,” he began.

 “No, no, sir,” Mrs. Lake insisted.  “You sit down here next to Mr. Holmes and I’ll bring it over.  How do you take it?”

“White, no sugar,” Sherlock replied.  “And John will have a full breakfast and raspberry jam, assuming the ‘militia’ left any.”

Mrs. Lake chuckled, and then turned toward the coffee station.

John slid into the seat next to Sherlock, bumping their thighs together as he settled.  Sherlock believed it had been quite deliberate.

“Good Morning,” John said, his voice throaty.  “How are we this morning?”

Sherlock moved over, bumping their shoulders, pleased at the quick inhalation he heard from John.  “I should be asking _you_ that question, shouldn’t I?”

“Never better,” John said.

His eyes were so full of emotion that Sherlock had to command himself to not look away.    It was uncomfortable.  It was in a public setting.  But hurting John wasn’t an option, so his eyes stayed locked on the only person he’d ever loved as an adult.

The longer their gazes held Sherlock felt blood pooling in all points south.  Dragging John back upstairs wasn’t out of the question.

“It’s a bit of an industry down here, isn’t it?” John asked, finally breaking the gaze when Mrs. Lake returned with his coffee.  

“We’re trying,” she said.  “Now your breakfast will be right up.”

Mycroft’s people?” John asked, then took a sip of coffee.

“Uhm,” Sherlock hummed.  “Would you like my toast while you wait?”

John smiled.  “Very kind of you to offer,” and he snagged a piece already slathered with orange-champagne marmalade.  “I checked in with Mrs. Meadows, Mrs. Carlisle and Emmanuel before coming down.”

“How are they?” Sherlock asked. 

“They’re recovering nicely,” John said and then sat back as Mrs. Lake returned with a plate of beans on toast, 4 rashers of bacon, more toast and jam and a soft boiled egg.  “Thank you,” he said.  “This looks delicious.”  And he tucked in.

Sherlock watched in fascination as John ate his breakfast.  His micro expressions weren’t that dissimilar to when he was being pleasured.  Was that what food was for some people?  Pleasurable?  Sensual even?  Sherlock decided he’d have to conduct more research on the topic.  He watched as John’s tongue slipped out to catch a bit of sauce from the beans that threatened to escape.  Yes: dragging John back upstairs was definitely occurring in the near future.

“They’re all chomping at the bit to get back to work,” John said, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Sherlock looked quizzical and replayed the last few minutes.

“Mrs. Meadows, Mrs. Carlisle and Emmanual,” John prompted.

Sherlock felt the heat again as John bumped his leg again.

“You’re distracted,” John said, his eyes amused.  “Why’s that, then?”

Dropping his eyes so that he was looking up at John through his lashes.  “Why do you think?” Sherlock’s voice was a tiny bit wrecked and he really didn’t give a damn.

John grinned, and used a piece of toast to sop up the soft runny yolk that had spilled onto his plate.  “Plans for the day?”

“I can think of a few,” Sherlock murmured.

Before he could further enlighten John as to his _very_ explicit plans for the day, Lestrade entered the kitchen. 

“Hey!” he called.  “How are you feeling, John?”

John stood, and thrust his hand out.

The air thickened between them and Sherlock watched as Lestrade hesitated. 

John stood firm.  After long moments, Lestrade took the proffered hand, shaking it.

“John, I – ” Lestrade began.

“ – basically,” Sherlock interrupted.  “ _Greg_ is very sorry for doubting me.  He worked very hard to get my name cleared and to get his own career back on track, of course,” Sherlock said, voice laced with sarcasm.  “He’d like to let bygones be bygones – and when the hell did all of these ridiculous idioms invade my consciousness?” he asked.  “Nevertheless _Greg_ will not have peace of mind until we accept his apology.  I, obviously, have already done so.”

John looked between them and Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and looked a little embarrassed. 

Quickly assessing John’s face he saw the makings of a frown around his eyes and his mouth.  Sherlock was surprised.  John was at war with himself.  He wanted to accept the apology, and yet….part of him clearly did not.

_Oh….._

John had always been so protective of Sherlock.  This would be no different.  John still had his back up about what he saw as Lestrade’s defection.  He could not easily swallow Lestrade’s apology.  Sherlock knew that John would seek Lestrade out later for a more private discussion.

“I’ve missed something, haven’t I?” John asked.  “Again,” he said, his voice self-deprecating.  “What idioms?  And while I’m thinking about it I thought I heard a woman yelling as I came downstairs.

“Oh,” Sherlock smiled.  “You absolutely did.”

“Who is that?”

Lestrade let out a deep chuckle.  “We’d better kiss and make up, mate,” he said to John.  “I get the distinct feeling we’re going to be having each other’s back.”

Just as John began to speak, Mrs. Lake walked over with two steaming mugs of coffee.  One for John, one for Lestrade.

“What does that mean?”  John asked.  “I mean, I’m sure we’ll come to some sense of understanding about how NSY treated Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched as Lestrade’s face pinched, and then a more suitable blank look took its place.  _Not bad._

“John,” Sherlock began. “What Lestrade is trying and failing to say – ”  He took a moment to enjoy the twist of annoyance on Lestrade’s face.  “Is that he and Mycroft are now an ‘item’.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, looking between them, incredulous.  “Are you serious?”  Then he did a double take, and stared at Lestrade, his eyes flitting over Lestrade’s features and then a stunned look settling on his own face.

 _Points to John._ His observation skills seemed to have improved, rather than degraded during Sherlock’s absence.

“Dear God,” John said, sitting his mug down with a clink.  “You’re serious.”

Lestrade’s mouth twisted again.  “So – I guess it’s my place to say, ‘Welcome to the family’?”

“I….well,” John stammered.  “I – uh…thanks, I think.”

Sherlock’s mouth quivered to turn up in a grin.

“Hang on,” John said.  “So you and Mycroft: okay.  But I’m still not clear on the ‘having each other’s back’ part of the discussion.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  Best to jump in.  After all, John really should hear it from him.  “Didn’t I mention?  Mummy’s home.”

“And she has been reaming Mycroft for the last 25 minutes,” Lestrade said, his voice dry.

John’s face turned ashen.  “Your mother?” he asked.  “She’s here?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  “Problem?  You were very keen to meet her when we first arrived at the estate.”

 “Well, yes, Sherlock. I was.”  John’s face flushed with color.  “I mean, since she was in New York it was all rather hypothetical, now wasn’t it?”

“And?” Sherlock probed.

“ _And_ ,” John said, “and now I’m shagg--  ‘er _intimately_ involved with you.”

“She is _very_ protective of him,” Lestrade piped in.  “Good luck with that mate, she’s already turned Mycroft inside out and Sherlock is next on her list.”

Sherlock could almost hear the cogs churning in John’s mind, his eyes darting toward the door.  “No,” Sherlock said.  “You’re not leaving.”

“But – ” John began and then shut up, shaking his head.  He squared his shoulders.  “Alright then,” he said.  He looked up at Lestrade.  “How bad can it be?”

A smooth contralto voice, spoke from the doorway.  “Oh I don’t know, Dr. Watson,” she said.  “My late husband called me ‘A Walking Mile of Hell.’”

John stood, snapping into military attention.  “Very nice to meet you ma’am.”  He held out his hand as she moved toward the table.  “Then I’ll assume your looks were not all that Sherlock inherited from you, then.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around, his mouth parted to voice his displeasure.

“Settle down, Darling,” Mummy said.  “The doctor and I need to get to know one another.”  Her eyes flickered between them.  “Perhaps I can help him better understand my baby boy’s mercurial nature.”

“Mother!” he said, now scarlet with embarrassment.

She turned her gaze directly on Sherlock.  “In my office in 10 minutes.” 

Smiling she said, “Dr. Watson, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“And you as well, ma’am,” John replied, still at attention.

“I’ll look forward to having a little visit with you later.  Say 2pm?  In my office?”

John gave a tight nod and Sherlock could read his mind by looking at his face.

_Once more unto the breach._

 

 


	3. Afternoon Tea

“Do have a seat, Dr. Watson,” Mrs. Holmes said, her long slim arm out, motioning toward one of the intricate Louis XIV chair, more decorative than comfort.  John supposed that was rather the point.

“Thank you,” he said, assuming his best doctor’s countenance. 

Upstairs Sherlock had repeatedly assured him that the meeting would be fine.  After ‘Mummy’ let her displeasure about the knife wound – as if he’d purposely gotten himself stabbed!  He’d decried with a dramatic flounce.  Then he’d wheedled, cajoled and threatened, to get John into bed with him.  ‘It would be great stress release,’ he’d said, half a step away from a whinge.

‘Have you gone mad?’ John had parried.  ‘Sherlock!  She’s your mother.  She’d know.’

“Would you care for afternoon tea?” Mrs. Holmes asked, smiling in a way that seemed only slightly less predatory than a cobra.

But John had faced down worse than Sherlock’s mum. Or at least that was what he told himself.  “That would be lovely,” he said, smile firmly in place.

He watched as French manicured fingers texted on her mobile almost as quickly as her son.  She laid the phone aside.

“So tell me about yourself, Doctor,” she said.  “Something I haven’t read in the reports Mycroft provides.”

John swallowed.  _Here we go._   “Well I’m afraid you have the advantage on me, Mrs. Holmes,” he smiled in return.  “I haven’t read those reports.  Why don’t you tell me what you know and we can go from there.”

Her laugh was as light as Sherlock’s was throaty.  “Touché, Dr. Watson.”

John felt a small measure of relaxation.  Nonetheless: vigilance was key.

“I am not your enemy, Dr. Watson,” she said, after looking at him in the same sort of appraising way Sherlock did.

“You’re a lot like your son, aren’t you?” John asked.  “Or rather: the other way round.”

“I like to think both of my sons have inherited some of my better traits,” she demurred.  “But I fear, for your sake, Sherlock has inherited some of my less than desirable traits, as well.”

Remaining passive, John merely cocked his head as if inquiring further.

“But we’re not here to discuss Sherlock’s heritage at this particular moment,” she said.  “I’d like to hear more about you.”  She looked down at her moleskin notebook. “I won’t bore you with the details about your family, schooling or your service in the war.”

He nodded.

A slight knock at the door signaled the tea service.  John was surprised to see it seemed to be high tea.   A man, Sherlock had pointed out as his mother’s PA, was there to unload the cart onto a credenza.  He poured two cups of tea and then served them.  He stopped to address John.  “What might you like, sir?”

John looked at the small spread and requested shortbread biscuits, cream cheese and cucumber salad sandwich and a scone.

The PA filled a plate for John and delivered it before filling one for Mrs. Holmes as well.

They settled into silence, not exactly what John would call comfortable; however, it wasn’t antagonistic so that was something.

“Tell me how you met my son,” she said.

John’s raised his eyebrow in askance.

“Of course, I know the logistics of it,” she said, correctly reading his face.  “But I’d like to hear it from you.”

John sat down his cup of tea on the table between the two chairs.  As he recounted that day, his entire face lit up.  “He was completely amazing,” he said as he came to the conclusion and they’d finished by eat egg drop soup.  “And, I think, quite possibly, he saved my life that day.”

“Literally,” she said.  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”  He held her gaze. 

She took a delicate sip from her cup.  “But you didn’t have romantic feelings for my son immediately, correct?”

John was surprised to hear the word ‘romantic’ come from a Holmes mouth and his mouth quirked up in a half-smile.  “You know, in retrospect, I can’t really be sure.”  He chuckled.  “There was a funny conversation we almost had the day after we met.”  John let the awkward conversation roll in his head.  “ _Sherlock_ seemed to think I was hitting on him.”  John shook his head.  “But if I was I wasn’t conscious of it at the time.”

“Mycroft said you were loyal, very quickly.”

John laughed.  “Yes. I refused to take his money to spy on Sherlock for him.  Later Sherlock chastised me for not taking it.”

She smiled too and for the first time since he’d sat down he saw the doting mother beneath her façade. 

“I’d never hurt him,” he said, answering the concern she had yet to voice.  “I know what he’s like: he’s mad, impetuous, and pain in the arse sometimes.”  John shook his head and grinned like a loon.  “And I love him anyway.”

Good Christ!  He hadn’t even told Sherlock that yet.

“My son has always eschewed love,” Mrs. Holmes said.  “I’ve worried about him.”

John picked up the scone, cut it open and added cream and jam.  He was surprised when Mrs. Holmes rose and crossed to the tea service and brought back the pot and milk, graciously refilling his cup.  “Thank you,” he said.

“And you’ve never been with another man?”

The non sequitur threw John and he almost choked on the bite of scone.  He narrowed his eyes.  “You know, Mrs. Holmes.  If you were Mycroft, I’d tell you this really isn’t any of your concern.”

“But I disagree,” she said.  “Sherlock has always been different. Maybe we protected him too much, maybe not enough.” Mrs. Holmes looked away, as if staring at something out the floor to ceiling windows in the garden.  “People were always difficult for Sherlock.” 

She turned back and faced John squarely.  “He is more fragile than he lets on.  More easily hurt.”

John nodded.  “I know he used to be.  When we lived together _before_ I quickly learned the more vitriol Sherlock spewed the more vulnerable he felt.”  Now it was John’s turn to remember brutal conversations between them.  The hurt he’d felt until he ‘observed’ and understood what was behind the anger.

“And now?” she prodded.  “Can you wipe away three years of pain,” she snapped her fingers.  “Just like that?”

John sat his cup back down, squared himself in the chair.  “Mrs. Holmes.  I would change it if I could. For both of us.  No one was having a good time.”  He sighed.  “But we can’t change it.  We can only move forward.”

“And is that enough?” she asked, leaning forward, fingers steepled in a very familiar profile.  “Is Sherlock enough?”

“Oh God, yes,” John said, and then flinched when he realized how husky his voice had come out. 

Mrs. Holmes sat back in her chair.  “Good.”

John minutely shook his head.  “Sorry, what?”

She smiled, and this time it was genuine.  Warmth showed in her eyes and when she spoke he heard happiness.  “I could not be happier to find that my son has formed an attachment with someone who cares as deeply about him as Sherlock does about you.”

John was speechless, but felt a rush of blood at his cheeks.

“To put it more succinctly: welcome to the Holmes family, Dr. Watson.”

 

  ~ Fin

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like thank everyone who read and left kind words or Kudos. I've so enjoyed living in this universe for a few months and I thought a little froth was a nice way to end it.


End file.
